Between the head of Ursa Major, the Big Bear, and Cassiopeia is a region bereft of bright stars. You might not see anything at all unless you observe from a dark, rural sky.
It’s not like there’s nothing there, however. Eagle-eyed Johannes Hevelius charted and cataloged 32 stars on his 1690 star map.
The ancient Greeks, who were more interested in the mythological value of their constellations, didn’t bother to create a constellation in the region.
However, with the invention of the astronomical telescope in 1609 and its subsequent development, the chances of finding something scientifically interesting in any given patch of sky increased astronomically, if you will excuse the expression.
In 1612, the Dutch theologian/ astronomer Petrus Plancius depicted the region on his small 10-inch-diameter celestial globe. Plancius named it Camelopardalis, a name that created instant and lasting confusion.
For one thing, stellar cartographers couldn’t decide on the spelling. On some of the old star maps, it is spelled Camelopardalus or Camelopardus. In his 1690 star map, Hevelius uses the first variant, for example.
However, Hevelius was so respected that the name stuck, which cannot be said of some of Plancius’s other defunct constellational creations. Astronomers never point their telescopes toward Gallus, the Rooster, or Canis Minor, the Lesser Crab. Plancius did, however, strike gold with Monoceros, the Unicorn. But I digress.
The second perplexity was a basic one. What in heaven’s name is a Camelopardalis?
Confusion was common because “Camel” is a part of the name. For example, German cartographer Jacob Bartsch includes the constellation in his 1624 set of printed star maps, the first time it appeared in print and not on a celestial globe.
But Bartsch looks to the 24th chapter of the Biblical book of Genesis for a clue about the name. He suggests that it represents the camel used by Rebecca to ride to her marriage with Isaac.
Unfortunately, the constellation does not represent a camel. Plancius derived the Latin spelling from the Greek word for giraffe. In ancient Greek, “kamēlos” does indeed mean “camel.” But pardalis means “leopard.” The Greeks called giraffes “camel-leopards” because giraffes have extended necks like camels and spots like leopards.
Ancient Chinese astronomers were far more interested in the patch of sky than ancient Western astronomers, and they had a good reason.
When Chinese astronomers established their constellations 1,600 years ago, the north celestial pole was not what we now call Polaris, the North Star. Because Earth wobbles very slowly on its axis, the pole was located in what Western astronomers call Camelopardalis.
The closest star to the pole was Struve 1694, which is barely visible to the unaided eye. Chinese astronomers called the star the Celestial Pivot (Tianshu), the place where the dome of the night turned.
When they added an arc of nearby stars, they got the Celestial Pole Office. Struve 1624 and the other stars represented none other than the Chinese Emperor and his immediate family.
Today, some amateur astronomers couldn’t find Camelopardalis if their lives depended on it. That’s partly because of the faintness of its stars and partly because it has few interesting objects to observe with the naked eye or in a telescope.
One exception is the star designated Alpha Cam. The designation “Alpha” suggests that the star is the brightest in the constellation. It isn’t. Beta and CS Cam are slightly brighter.
Alpha is a young blue supergiant star. At “only” two million years old, it weighs in at over 37 times our sun’s mass and shines with a luminosity a startling 676,000 times brighter than the sun.
At 6,000 light years away from Earth, Alpha is among the farthest stars you can see with your unaided eye.
The only non-stellar object I’ve observed in Camelopardalis is the galaxy NGC 2403. At eight million light-years away, it is relatively close to us. We see the galaxy “face-on” — from the top, as it were. You’ll need a relatively sizeable amateur telescope to see it as a mottled oval of light with a prominent central bulge and faint spiral arms that look more like a halo than arms.
Still, if you’re a galaxy hound, it’s worth a look. For constellational completists like me, the same goes for the constellation.
Tom Burns is the former director of the Perkins Observatory in Delaware.
